#scotis life

[scotisfr]

We've made a book press ! That can double as a sewing frame. It's big, I can do A3 book if I want. All material are recycled from old project or not used material.

My printer is still not working for the moment, but I'm hyped and impatient to start bookbinding !

[scotianostra]

On 10th March 560, St Kessog, the Irish missionary in the Lennox area and southern Perthshire, was killed.

It’s not often we go back over 1500, but Kessog was an important religious figure back then, and is considered to have been patron saint of Scotland before we were even a nation, and certainly before St Andrew

We know precious little about Saint Kessog, also known as MacKessog, Kessock or MacKessock, but it was a long-standing tradition in the Celtic Church that he was murdered by pagans on March 10, 520, and that date remains his feast day even now.

As is always the case in the days before any sort of written historical record was made in Scotland, much of what we do know about Kessog is based on oral tradition – which by its nature tends towards the legendary and even the mythical.

There is no doubt, however, that Kessog existed and that he was a Christian missionary mainly in the lands we know as the Lennox, around Dumbarton, but almost everything else about him must be taken on trust though, as we shall see, there are considerable clues about him scattered around Scotland.

Tradition has it that Kessog was born into a royal family of Munster in Ireland, perhaps the King of Cashel, around the year 460.

One of the myths about him concerns a supposed incident in his childhood. The sons of a number of princes who were visiting the king were drowned in a swimming accident that may well have been caused by Kessog, who was the only survivor.

Nothing daunted, the boy took to his knees and prayed all night, and in the morning the drowned children were restored to life, thereby averting likely wars with the various princes.

He was destined for a holy life, and as a youngster he came under the influence of St Patrick who would then have been in his 70s. Patrick had by then created hundreds of churches and other Christian institutions across Ireland, and is said to have personally baptised 100,000 people.

Patrick sent Kessog to the monastery of another saint, Mo Chaoi, often written as Malachoi, which was located at Nendrum in County Down. Mochaoi, whose real name was Caolan, had been sent by Patrick to found the monastery which lasted until the Vikings sacked it in the 10th century.

Having been ordained a monk and then a bishop, it was decided that Kessog should go to the land of the Scoti, the Irish tribes who had made their home in what is now Argyll, creating a kingdom which is known as Dalriada.

It is not known why Kessog then struck east into the “debatable lands” between the Scots, the Picts and the Britons of the Kingdom of Strathclyde headquartered at Dumbarton. But if he was indeed a disciple of Patrick then there is an obvious connection, for despite all claims to the contrary, the most favoured location for the birth and youth of Patrick is Old Kilpatrick on the River Clyde just 10 miles from Loch Lomond which lay at the heart of the lands of Lennox. Indeed Lennox derives from Levenax, pertaining to the River Leven which courses from Loch Lomond to the River Clyde.

It is not plausible that Patrick decided to send a missionary to an area he would have known well in his childhood?

The Lennox would not become a recognised earldom until many centuries later, but Kessog appears to have become the apostle of the Lennox area, preaching the Christian faith all around Loch Lomond and through into Perthshire and as far north as modern Inverness. If that was the case, then he preached the gospel to the Picts 40 years earlier than Columba.

I wrote earlier about the clues to Kessog and where he worked, and those clues are place names. The saint is said to have founded a monastery on an island in Loch Lomond, Inchtavannach, which means island of the monk’s house. Local tradition has it that Inchtavannach’s highest point Tom nan Clag, the hill of the bell, got its name from Kessog installing a bell on the summit which with he summoned monks and laity to prayer. Certainly there was a bell associated with Kessog as it was listed in the funeral investitures of the Earldom of Perth as late as 1695.

Going north, a hill near the River Teith in Perthshire is known as Tom na Chessaig or Hill of Kessog, and there were mediaeval churches named after Kessog in Auchterarder and Comrie.

South Kessock in Inverness, North Kessock on the Black Isle and the Kessock Bridge on the north side of Inverness are named after him, reflecting the long tradition that the saint preached thereabouts.

Kessog’s successful mission to the people around Loch Lomond angered the local pagans possibly led by druids. They are said to have either killed Kessog themselves or bribed mercenaries to do it.

The place of his martyrdom is traditionally at Bandry Bay near Luss village on the Lochside – well known as the location for Glendarroch in STV’s Take the High Road soap. A cairn of stones marked the site of his death for centuries.

Luss has long been associated with Kessog, as he founded a church there in 510. The church was later named after him and an effigy of the saint dating from before the Reformation can be found in the church.

There is also St Kessog’s RC Church and St Kessog’s Primary School in Balloch at the southern end of Loch Lomond.

So plenty of local Lennox connections to Kessog but was he patron saint of Scotland?

The cult of Andrew developed fairly late in Christian life in Scotland, and it is known that Robert the Bruce, for one, had a particular veneration for Kessog.

The Bruce took refuge at Luss in 1306 and was cared for by a local laird. As king he would later grant a charter to John of Luss “for the reverence and honour of our patron, the most holy man, the blessed Kessog”.

In 1323 the king made the church of Luss and its surroundings a place of sanctuary “to God and the blessed Kessog”, as the charter states.

Scottish soldiers in the War of Independence also shouted the saint’s name as a battle cry, and relics of Kessog were said to have been carried into battle by the Scots.

In one modern respect Kessog is up among the top Scottish saints – along with Andrew, Ninian, Magnus, and Mungo, he has an oil field named after him in the North Sea.

[redrose-arrow]

Honestly? 

I think it’s frankly unacceptable that no one has yet written an AU in which Alyss DOES accept Keren’s offer to live with him in Gallica, because she knows it’ll save the others from having to make terrible decisions, and also, she isn’t actually entirely sure Will will be able to manouevre his way out of this situation and save both the Kingdom and her, so she flees with Keren and marries him and isn’t happy, of course, but she can live in peace knowing that she made the best decision under the given circumstances, until a bearded young man with Hibernian accent who sounds vaguely familiar starts being spotted in one of the towns near Keren’s castle, and Alyss realises that maybe her old life isn’t that far away after all, and she manages to sneak into a fabrics shop unguarded and suddenly stands eye in eye with Will - Will - who seems happy, relieved, but also -- angry? -- if Alyss had dared to dream of ever seeing him again, she wouldn’t have dreamt this, wouldn’t have dreamt her best friend telling her that “you lost faith in me. you lost faith in me. when anyone else loses faith in me - anyone else - it’s alright. but not you. never you” - no, she wouldn’t have dreamt that, but he’s right, of course he’s right, because she did lose faith, in everyone, in herself, in him, and now they’re in this situation, but she can make it up to him, she can, because she knows Keren brought some secrets from the Scoti for insurance, and those secrets would give Araluen leverage in diplomatic negotiations, and they could finally enforce a ceasefire, so if they can just get those secrets, and get her out, then everything will be alright again, right - right? - so there they go, and Will comes up with another amazing plan (how could she ever have doubted him?) and it works, for the most part, until they’re stuck in Keren’s office, high up in the tower, so to get out, they have to climb down the outside of the tower (shit, not again), but it’s alright, they do, and Will and Alyss flee, first to the Scoti, where Alyss unofficially, though legally because her dishonourment from the Diplomatic Service hasn’t gone through yet, manages to get that ceasefire, and then her and Will ride to Redmont, and everything seems alright, except - as Halt and Pauline so eloquently remind them - Alyss is still legally married to Keren, and he has every right to come to demand her return, but then Will chuckles, and Halt rolls his eyes because he knows Will did some stupid shit again, and yes he did, Will rummages through his saddle bags and reveals another piece of parchment, waves with it a little, until Halt and Pauline and Alyss - who recognised the paper instantly, of course - can understand that it’s Alyss and Keren’s marriage papers, and when they do, Will throws it into the fire, he looks back at the others, grins, and says “so. now she isn’t married anymore. and when Keren shows up here demanding her return, I can legally punch him in the face before arresting him”, which is of course what happens and then Will and Alyss live happily ever after. 

yes. unacceptable that no one has written this yet. 

[tellthemeerkatsitsfine]

One of my favourite singers, someone who’s been among my favourite singers for two-thirds of my life now, is a folk singer from Prince Edward Island on the East Coast of Canada named Lennie Gallant. He’s very fucking Canadian; quite a lot of his songs are about bits of Canada and why they love the ocean so much and how that affects our culture. He has more than one song about hockey. As the British would say, he’s won more ECMAs ([Canadian] East Coast Music Awards) than I’ve had hot dinners. I think I’ve seen him live more times than any other singer, which is saying something because I’ve spent all my life going to folk festivals every year, so I’ve seen a lot of live folk music. Sometimes I’ve seen him play ten or more sets in one summer, by catching him at multiple workshops in one folk festival and then doing the same at another folk festival and seeing him do a concert elsewhere.

I love an artist who, when they choose to get political, don’t just write general protest songs, they have specific issues they care about. Lennie Gallant has multiple songs about the importance of responsible regulations that protect both the culture and livelihoods of those who live in East Coast fishing communities. He also has multiple songs about mining regulations and what dangerous working conditions and mass layoffs can do to a mining community. The most general he gets is a few songs about relations between French and English Canada, on which he has an interesting perspective as a bilingual Acadian, and about 15% of his total songs are in French.

...I’ve just realized this post is going to go on for a while about these and other things, so I’ll throw a “keep reading” link in there. This one doesn’t connect to British comedy at all, I’m just thinking about some things and writing them down.

When I was ten years old and in grade five, we had to do a school project in which we brought in a CD by our favourite singer, talk about what the music was and why we liked it, and play one song of our choice for the class. I brought in Lennie Gallant Live, my favourite album at the time, and still probably in my top ten favourite albums now that I’m thirty-one. I was the only kid in class who got to play more than one song off my album. The teacher was so interested in this Lennie Gallant guy that she took the album cover from me and started reading about all the songs, and then got me to play three more on top of the one I’d chosen. She asked me all kinds of follow-up questions about who this guy was and what his music was like, even though she didn’t ask questions like that to any of my classmates. I told that story for about a year, using it to explain how I was so cool for bringing in the best music of everyone in class, until I heard my dad tell that story to his friend, except that for some reason he didn’t frame it as an example of how cool I was. He explained that I was the only student who’d brought in music that was of no interest to the other children, and only the teacher liked it.

Lennie Gallant put out a beautiful album called Time Travel in 2018; I think it may be the best one he’s made since that Live album that came out in 2000, and I’m amazed that he’s able to keep putting out amazing new stuff. It gave me one of those experiences that I don’t get nearly as I often as I used to, of listening to all of a just-released album in order for the first time and marveling at the newness of it, and then going back and listening to every song over and over until I started hearing things in them that I didn’t catch at first, and appreciating everything he’d put into it.

One of the songs off that album is called Saying Goodbye to Ron, and it’s perfect. It’s about Ron Hynes, a folk singer from Newfoundland who died in 2015. There’s a strong community around East Coast Canadian folk music ("East Coast" meaning the Atlantic-bordering provinces of Newfoundland, where Ron Hynes is from, Prince Edward Island, where Lennie Gallant is from, Nova Scotia, where a giant number of my favourite singers are from and it has the island of Cape Breton that's basically a factory for folk singers, and New Brunswick). Ron Hynes was a legend of that, a forerunner of people like Lennie Gallant, a treasure of all people who love that sort of music. He’s best known for his song Sonny’s Dream, from the perspective of a lonely mother in a rural fishing community who has trouble letting her son go as he leaves to pursue his own dreams, which is on all kinds of lists of the best quintessentially Canadian songs ever. Sonny’s Dream, Four Strong Winds, Barrett’s Privateers, and like half of Gordon Lightfoot’s catalogue. That’s Canada. Well, that's white, English-speaking Canada, anyway.

Ron Hynes was one of the few celebrity deaths that I’ve ever shed tears over, back when it happened. I’ve grown up listening to all of Ron Hynes’ own albums, but he also appears so often as a co-writer or some other sort of collaborator on other people’s albums. My dad and I used to talk about how you could read the album cover jackets of just about any significant East Coast Canadian folk singer, and you’d find Ron Hynes’ name in there somewhere, credited with helping.

So when he died, it felt like a community mourning. Lennie Gallant has talked in the introduction to this song about how Ron’s death was personal for him, because he knew and Ron personally, but also, in his home on Canada’s East Coast, he was surrounded by people who didn’t know Ron personally but were also mourning. He said his tour took him to Newfoundland just after Ron’s death, and it felt like everyone there was mourning.

He had this beautiful explanation of how the community of people who were emotionally affected by this was so pervasive that it felt like the collective grief could manifest as something real, like it physically hung in the air. It created an atmosphere that meant he could feel Ron’s spirit out there, and that gave him something to say goodbye to, even though he never got to say goodbye in person. He never got to have a conversation with Ron that he knew would be the last, but the collective grief manifested a feeling of Ron’s presence, so he could walk down the road and say goodbye to it slowly. He said he was grateful to the people of Newfoundland for creating that feeling.

I guess it’s worth noting now that I don’t literally believe in spirits or in people being able to bring back any part of dead people, but I’ve always thought that was a beautiful image. You can feel something there and that can bring comfort even if it isn’t literally true. Lennie Gallant wrote an absolutely beautiful, heartbreaking song about this phenomenon, called Saying Goodbye to Ron. I first heard that song when I saw him do a concert in a church basement in Nova Scotia in 2017, and everyone in the room held their breath for the entire song. It was captivating and beautiful and the stranger sitting next to me was wiping away tears by the end. It was a magical moment, like everyone was brought right back to that time, and manifested that spirit again. I was so annoyed that I couldn’t go home and listen to that song again, because it wasn't on any albuns. I was so pleased when he released it on his Time Travel album so I could listen to it all I wanted.

Last February, one of my friends died very unexpectedly. I knew this friend though the sport we both did, one in which he was far more accomplished than I was, and was well known in the community. Everyone knew him, so there should have been that sense of a community grieving collectively when he died. There should have been tributes to him at tournaments and other events that brought us together, but there weren’t, because we were all in lockdown and there were no events. There were a lot of social media posts, but that’s not the same. I watched the livestream of his sparse and socially distant funeral, I cried on the phone to some friends, and that was the most collective mourning we could get.

Last night, I had a dream that he’d taken one of those jobs. In this dream, COVID never happened, and his death certainly never happened. It was 2019 again, and he was about to leave to coach a university team in another city. I was at a store, trying to find a going away gift for him. I picked something up, not sure what because dreams are weird and light on details, and I also bought a card. Then I sat down and started writing in it.

In the couple of years before COVID hit, this friend of mine had a couple of offers to take a coaching job with university teams. Accepting one would have taken him out of my city, which would have made me sad, but of course my friends and I encouraged him to take it if it was what he wanted. He considered taking those jobs, and he talked to us about it, but he never took them. He never said it, but I always thought at least part of the reason he didn’t take those jobs is he worried he wouldn’t be good enough do them.

I wrote all these things about how great he was, how I knew he’d been anxious to do this but I was glad he’d finally taken the risk, he was more than good enough as an athlete and as a coach and as a person to take this on. How I believed in him and couldn’t wait to see what he’d accomplish. How the people on my team, and me personally, cared about him and would miss him when he left. How he’d contributed so much to my team as my co-coach, and contributed so much to my life as my friend, and I’d miss all those contributions when he was gone. I wrote this down, and then I went to his house, and I handed him the card, and talked to him about what it said. I gave him a hug and told him I loved him.

Then I woke up, and I had Saying Goodbye to Ron really intensely stuck in my head. You know how there are times when a song is sort of in your head, and then other times when a song is stuck so strongly in your head that you can barely hear yourself think over the song? This was the second thing. I haven’t listened to that song for at least a few months, and the song wasn’t playing in my dream or anything. It was just playing really loudly and insistently in my head when I woke up.

I don’t believe in spirits or any of that, I don’t believe someone who’s died can literally visit you on a Newfoundland street or in a church basement during a concert, or in a dream. But that dream felt so vivid and intense, and so specific. I’ve had a number of dreams about him since he died, but never one where I got to literally tell him all the things I wanted to say about how much he meant to me, and how I'd miss him, and then I got to hug him goodbye. I don’t believe in anything magic, but I do believe my brain decided I needed to do that, so it gave me a dream where it happened, and whatever level of my subconscious organized the whole thing understood that that is also what’s going on in that Lennie Gallant song, so it put that in my head too.

I don’t know. Sometimes our brains create things so amazingly well made that we mistake them for being supernatural. Maybe that’s the point of this post? I don’t know what the point of this post is, I just started writing it because I spent the morning in that weird “still feel like I’m having the dream” mood, and I wanted to write down things I thought about it.

So… yeah, that’s how this post happened. I have been inside with the flu for three days and might need to go for a walk or something.

[croweswings-a]

Character Study. Scott Halpritt

Tagged by @vandewaltmorf​ (thank u sm!)

FULL NAME.     Scott Leroy Halpritt (Hilbert) MEANING.     SCOTT: “from an english and scottish surname which referred to a person from scotland or a person who spoke scottish gaelic. it is derived from latin scoti meaning "gaelic speaker", with the ultimate origin uncertain.”    LEROY: “from the french nickname le roi meaning "the king".”    HALPRITT: made-up alias he created for himself. real surname is hilbert: germanic, means "bright battle". NICKNAME.     scottie ( doesn’t really enjoy nicknames ) GENDER.   male. HEIGHT.  5ft 8in. AGE.     verse dependent ( b. 1940 ) ZODIAC.     aries. SPOKEN LANGUAGES.   english, spanish.

P H Y S I C A L   C H A R A C T E R I S T I C S .

HAIR COLOUR.   golden blond. EYE COLOUR.   slate blue. SKIN TONE.   lightly tan, freckled. BODY TYPE.     toned, not thin, strong legged. ACCENT.  very generic learned TV american accent. doesn’t seem to fit any region. VOICE.     oaky tones, somewhat soft, carefully enunciated. DOMINANT HAND.   left. POSTURE.     tendency to keep his weight on one side, often has arms folded defensively. SCARS.     scar on chin, origin unknown. TATTOOS.   n/a. MOST NOTICEABLE FEATURE(S).     striking gaze, curly hair (past 1968), sharp nose.

C H I L D H O O D .

PLACE OF BIRTH.     location unknown. HOMETOWN.   staten island NY / monterey CA. BIRTH WEIGHT.     N/A. BIRTH HEIGHT.     N/A. MANNER OF BIRTH.   delivered while family was on the road travelling. FIRST WORDS.    the generic “mama”. SIBLINGS.  younger sister, anna, born 1941. PARENTS.     deceased. adoptive parents: jonathan & magdalene stanton. PARENT INVOLVEMENT.     was only 4 when his biological parents passed away. adoptive parents were very kind and supportive, musician father encouraged him to take up music as a hobby and he excelled fantastically.

A D U L T   L I F E .

OCCUPATION.     manager/session musician for CA folk rock band crowe’s wings. CURRENT RESIDENCE.   topanga, CA. CLOSE FRIENDS.  trevett allen, mark crowe, his sister anna. RELATIONSHIP STATUS.     single. FINANCIAL STATUS.   middle class. DRIVER’S LICENSE.  yes. CRIMINAL RECORD.    n/a. VICES.     smoking.

S E X   A N D   R O M A N C E .

SEXUAL ORIENTATION.   presumed heterosexual, open to exploration. ROMANTIC ORIENTATION.     undetermined. PREFERRED EMOTIONAL ROLE.     provider, supporter. PREFERRED SEXUAL ROLE.   dominant, though it usually depends on mood. LIBIDO.   fluctuates depending on business. TURN ON’S.    confidence, “dirty talk”, ample amount of foreplay, balanced amount of giving and receiving, sometimes getting a little rough, eye contact, women with lots of curves, men with pretty eyes/eyelashes TURN OFF’S.     any extreme bdsm, leather, age difference, etc - just nothing super taboo. he’s not extremely adventurous. LOVE LANGUAGE.   expressed with less words and more actions. he’s considerate and often thinks of the other person throughout the day which leads to little gifts or favours. the sort that will prepare a relaxing weekend off for his partner. good at understanding boundaries but can get moody if the communication is poor. RELATIONSHIP TENDENCIES.   very few, unsurprisingly. he doesn’t easily trust others and if he dates, the other usually finds his privateness to be frustrating to endure and breaks up with him within a month or so. he doesn’t seek out relationships and prefers to let things happen gradually. he’d rather have a relationship with someone he knows well.

M I S C E L L A N E O U S .

CHARACTER THEME SONG.     outside chance - the turtles HOBBIES TO PASS TIME.     playing/tuning/fixing instruments, long walks in the evening, smoking pot and listening to music, sewing. MENTAL ILLNESSES.     mild depression, mild parasomnia (sleep terrors) PHYSICAL ILLNESSES.    n/a. LEFT OR RIGHT BRAINED.     left brained. PHOBIAS.   claustrophobic.  SELF CONFIDENCE LEVEL.   8/10. VULNERABILITIES.   once he opens up to you, he’s trusting you completely. break that trust and he holds grudges for a long time because he’s easily wounded by betrayal. very affected by people who are considerate of his work life and what he has to put up with.

Tagging: @camillelafaye @hasflown :^)

[rosheendubh]

“Who is she that looketh forth as the morning, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners?”

Song of Songs 6:10 https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Inanna

—What Uthyr quotes at the Battle of Guinnion (the White Fortress~Eboracum in my mind, but Uthyr’s forces have been beaten back to Danum/my interpretation of Mount Danius alluded by Geoffrey of Monmouth), as he and Brochmal Ysgithyr (my Bedwyr), and Ceiheiddon (Cai), amid keeping their lines enforced, desperately fending off the enclosing forces of Jutes under Hengist, Octha/Osa, Cedric of the Gewisse, and Sueones/Saxons under Onela (Ale/Onela if the Swedish King cycles, my version of Aella Bretwalda, father of Cymen, Cissa, and Wlencing/Lancelot…), the allied Scoti under Pascentius, son of Rheinwen by Vortigern, and his Picti allies under Huail, brother of Guinevra, Cunedda, and Cywyllog, who betrayed his own father, Aeturnus of the Cawnur/Votadini, and the Frankish forces naval forces en route to the Bay of Abos/Humber inlet (my Bassas). —Gwalchmai, up from the front forces under heaviest assault, informs Uthyr earnestly of an approaching host sighted from the north, under an unknown banner, leading mounted units in formation down the Old Military Way from Corstopitum/Corbridge by the Wall. Cei, Brochmal, and Uthyr climb a knoll overlooking the wide valley full of clashing men, Uthyr’s heart sinking, knowing if the Frankish forces have landed, their battle is lost. Hoping against hope Gwen received his message, sent in greatest haste, carried by his and Cei’s sister (Uthyr’s cousin, actually), Cywair, cross country to DinEidyn, a bundle of tattered and torn, moth-rotting cloth, delivered only to Gwen’s hands, with the news of her father’s death, and Huail’s betrayal to the Jutish side. An old Roman legionary Standard, hidden away from the light for almost 3 centuries, once born by the forces of the Iazyges under Artorius Castus, in defense of Brigantia, that had united the region of the Old North and disparate auxiliary units with legionary companies. Found by Vortimer/Emrys Wledig in the neglected strong-room of Danum’s base, lying at the bottom of chest. Gwen, who unfurled the bundle handed her by a road-weary and exhausted Cywair, the fate of Britannia tied to her women now. And Guinevra, understanding exactly what she holds, the Symbol of Brigantia—a Swastika as a Tetraskele, St Brigid’s Cross, transposed upon itself to form the 8 Pointed Star Wheel, once the sign of Celestial Brigantia Herself, Divine Protectorix of the Tribes of the North spanning half of the island, threaded in Silver upon the heavy wool/leather canvas of the banner, died a bright blue once, faded to molding yellow, the All Seeing Eye at its nexus, the White Winged Serpent and the Red Winged Serpent twined around the central pole of the image as a caduceus. Those of Uthyr’s men who aren’t Danes and Swedes, pagans still, battling in that terrible melee drowning the valley of Danium, who are Roman or British decent, and declare Christ as their chosen God, while still making obedience to Mithras and Jupiter and Mars, will see the banner growing increasingly distinct upon the horizon of the North as the sign of the Holy Virgin, Mother of God. Those of his Northmen, who Uthyr himself, a son of Waelsung blood, a child of Wotan, has sailed and raided and pillaged as a SeaKing before claiming his and his brother’s legacy back from their father, Vortigern, claiming Britannia as a refuge for Teutonic immigrant and Roman-British citizen alike, under one rule, knows that Banner as the Queen of Heaven, and the woman who grasps the shaft of the standard in her hand, at the head of the forces of a united Alba, Valentina beyond the Walls—Prydain all of them, the Caledonians—leads the Houses of the Prydain to his aid. The Sword of Mars strapped to her torso, her spear secured at her mare’s neck—magnificent creature of Heavy cavalry stock bred with blood of African equines—Llamrei a gift of the Ostrogoth prince, Theodoric when he parted company from Guinevra in Rome— And at her side, Palomydez, the Alani, with his thousand heavy Cavalry out of Luguvallium, Pabo the Pillar if Prydain, arrayed in the scale armor as their muscled horses were, a metallic serpent of a thousand catarphactii at head of the Hen Ogledd, impervious to Jutish spear and Saxon blade once they assembled on the crest of the northern hills, the eve of their charge. —Next to him, Gwalchmai numbers off in awe, the houses following in Guinevra’s triumphant decent. The AlClud under Maelrys-Coroticus ap Baeddan, allied with the DalRiada’s naval fleet, the Banner of the Boar heading the Fidaig under Drostanus, with the Fortriu-Verturiones, and the remnants of the Lothians, jogging their mounts amid the Gododdin and Manau Gododdin signaled by the standards of the Bull, the Ram, and the Stag. —Ceiheiddon can’t seem to stop muttering, “By Mitra’s Shit Balls, I can’t believe she’s brought them…all of them.” Joined by Brochmal’s measured gaze, taking in the growing mass of mounted warriors now, across the vale to the northern bluffs. The faint trumpet of their Teutonic adversaries resounds with urgency, attentive to the new arrivals of the battle. He glances at Uthyr, the question of what they will do with this unexpected, hardly hoped for reinforcement changing their chances just barely to their favor. Down at the eastern end of their line, Cunedda is already readying his foot, and Medrod controlling the artillery from the crumbling barricade of Danium’s earthen bulwarks. Their small company of horse Uthyr held in reserve, trying not to deploy them until they were absolutely needed, knowing they had few precious charges to waste against Hengist’s greater numbers. Uthyr wishes for many things in that moment—that Vortimer, his eldest brother, the one meant to rule—were still here as the ultimate commander. Imperator…Amerarddur. He’s not earned that title for himself as yet. He wishes he were commanding his fleet of Black Danes, left under the authority of his sea-brother, Swerta-Hrothgar, dispatched in too choked of a time span to head off the Frankish ships. Wishes, gazing now across the vale, to the figure of Guinevra, a speck really, in the distance, but her can discern her astride her proud steed, that even against the brooding storm washed clouds, dark with deluge, and the rumbling of thunder, just beginning to spit fire from the heavens, and soak the moors below, the cold winds of late winter brewing into a gale, he wishes he still held her in his arms, as he had that last All Soul’s Feast, residing at her father’s invite, at DinEidyn where he’d planned to winter until the thaw of spring hailed he and his war-band back south, having won the alliances his brother required of the northern houses. But not having secured the most important, despite the betrothal of his nephew, Medrod to Aeternus’s youngest daughter, Cywyllog, the younger sister of Guinevra. In the lands of Valentina beyond the Wall, the tribes whether Prydain of Picti, honored kingship through mother-right, the eldest daughter of the head-chieftain who imbued the right of rule to her chosen husband. He’d tried to gain that privledge, deceiving her among the Samana festivities, thinking to seduce her behind a celebratory mask, and drunken revelry, so Guinevra wouldn’t recognize him from his cousin, Maelrys, who had been her chosen lover at that time, and had given the AlClud a son, Dumnovallos of DunBreatan that past spring. Maelrys thereby, solidified by blood, and a marriage of a year and a day had won by abduction, and Guinevra’s complicity, an alliance between the two most powerful houses of Valentia beyond the Wall. The Votadini providing an heir for the AlClud ruling from the rocky dome overlooking the western Firth of the Clotha. Guinevra, who had anticipated Uthyr’s deception, and unsuspectiny devised a counter-strategy, playing along with his ruse, until the moment of consummation, about to take her. She had called him out in a desire soaked breath. *Eutherios-Eutigernos—I’ve known Maelrys my whole life. Did you think me so easily tricked?* Between her legs, tasting of her essence, he rose over, his fingers curled at her throat, gentle, but fully capable of crushing her slender neck, as she pushed aside the cloth about his eyes, and he lifted the owl mask covering her brow. In the dim flames of the hearth, warming her chambers, her gray eyes held no fear nor accusation, passion and a dangerous glint boded in their depths. *It would be a matter of moments to finish what I need to here, and proclaim my rule, with our coupling.” She gracefully dislodged his hand from her throat, twining her fingers with his, as she turned them over, simple as a dancer, with a supple move of hip and leg, their naked limbs sliding against each other, flesh heating to fire. He caught his breath, rough, looking up at her now, lithe lines of muscle smoothing arm, and shoulder, the sweet curve of waist blooming to thighs astride his loins, his palms shaping her soft flesh, riddled in places with scars over her back, a healed laceration puckering her torso, where she arched beneath him, moving against his swollen phallus. A woman, trained as a weapon herself in the defense of her people. As she’d been educated too, in the texts of classical medicine, to act as physician and surgeon, indoctrinated as well, in her years residing in her convent in Rome, in the texts of the Greek and Roman scholars—Law, philosophy, and right-rule. A woman raised to be a ruler. A woman who could match is own upbringing educated under the tutelage of the abbess of Avillion in Gaul, and Germanus’s own monestary, spent his youth reading under the direction of Macrobius Ambrosius. “You don’t strike me as the type who violates women. You would die in this bed first, by my hand or that of my men, armed and waiting only my call if shouted.” He realized then, she’d known all along of his deception. He’d expected no less, of which he informed her in a low voice. “I know. Which is why my men were warned not stray far from their weapons, and not drink to excess of stupidity.” His hand kneaded her breast, and she leaned into him, her lips parting with a sigh, eyes flashing at his words, and yearning into his. “You knew, Gwen, but you’ve remained silent in summoning them. That tells me one thing,” he rasped, feeling her sway along his member, moist in her need, but not taking him in. His hand slid to her cheek, and she turned to his palm, lips kissing the skin as her eyes dropped shut, concealing the melancholy shimmering there, motion of rapture, body rocking against him, as she drew forward, over him, lowering her mouth to his, dark waves of her hair cascading around their locked forms. A groan rose from him, his lips searched hers, questing tongues, her breath a tickle against his stubbled cheek. Urgency building where their thighs met, motions growing more insistent as he grasped her hips, strong trying to push her against him. Her teeth bit into his neck, and a strangled moan escaped, white heat rushing over his flesh, This urge to possess. Broken all at once by a pounding at her door, the rap of a heavy hilt against oak, the angered shouts of men, and slide of steel from sheaths as benches and tables from the outer hall banged and crashed against stone floors. *UTHYR! UTHYR! YOU’RE NEEDED—* The sounds of a combat reaching them, Guinevra tensed in his arms, wrenching herself out of his grasp before he could stop her. Pain shot up his jaw, her hand striking out in a back-handed slap. *You fucking bastard!” She raged, voice low and full of ice. “Is this how you thought to win my affection?” She grabbed for a linen sheet, meaning to loop it around his wrists. He caught the fabric before she secure a knot, pulling the length and her along with it. Gripping her shoulders, trying to restrain her as she struggled against him, he brought them to kneeling, facing each other amid the rummpled blankets. “Listen to me!” He commanded Furiously into her burning gaze. “I didn’t give any order for them to attack. I don’t know what—“ *UTHYR!* The door rattled on its hinges as someone worked the latch, the clang of metal erupting beyond, words of protest and insult hurled about. A last heave, and the latch tore from its rivets, the oaken slabs crashing wide against the wall as Gwalchmai stumbled into the room, on his heels, Drostanus, charging with his shield raised like a bludgeon, aimed at the back of his head. “Halt, Drost!” She ordered, firm. Anger and doubt still clouded her eyes upon Uthyr, as she reluctanctly turned her focus to the cluster of armed guards filling the room, 3 more figures just beyond the entry freezing at her words. Uthyr raised his hand in a signal for his own men to lower weapons, nodding toward Gwalchmai for assurance. Awkward seconds passed, the soldiers, both Guinevra’s guard and Uthyr’s own, seeing the state they disturbed their lady and lord. Guinevra, unaffected by the male presence, casually rose from the bed, freeing herself from Uthyr’s hands, nonchalance in the way she strode to where her chamber robe lay over a chair back. The men crowding her private quarters may not have been there at all, for the notice she took of them, coughs and throats clearing as furtive gazes tried to preserve her modesty, the honor of a noblewoman against the temptation to glimpse such a glory of vision. Uthyr took advantage of the moment, uncaring of his nakedness—these men were his brothers as much as battle comrades he’d known since boyhood—but sensing the need to reestablish dignity of rank, slipped his trews on, tying the draw-strings loose about his waist. Gwalchmai bowed his head brusquely, looking up with an apologetic flick of eyes toward Guinevra, before speaking. “My lord, urgent summons to the council chamber. Your brother and his forces lie ambushed outside of Eboracum, that’s been betrayed by Cerdic on Octa’s design.” Uthyr swore, dread sweeping away any remnants of passion. Someone muttered from past the doorway, how Aeternus’s units, with Lleudonus, always seemed summoned to salvage the fraying hold Eleutherius fought to maintain upon what had once been the expansive region of the Dux Britanniarum’s authority surrounding Ebrauc. It wasn’t the internicene resentments between Northern houses which concerned Uthyr in that moment. How could have let himself be so beguiled in this past summer and fall, enthralled by a Votadini princess and her mesmerizing aura? Even if his assignment here had been at the impetus of his brother’s wish. Even if she was the key to gaining ultimate authority over the lands of the Prydain, which would bring Caledonia into Vortimer’s rule. With Uthyr’s company north of the old Antonine divide, Vortimer’s forces were left dangerously under-manned. Guinevra asked in a strangely subdued tone, “When was this news received?” Gwalchamai’s cheeks went ruddy, unable to meet her face directly, obviously haunted by the image of her unclothed form, white limbs, willowy curve of breasts and hips, thick dark waves her only covering. “Just now,” he managed in a choked voice, adding belatedly, “my lady. It-it came to your father first.” Uthyr caught the disquiet darkening her brow, eyes leaping to him with an impenetrable look, before shifting to Drostanus, alert as a watch-dog at the door’s threshold. A few short directives to him, with a last reminder she would summon her maid to dress and join her father and brothers presently, and Drostanus bowed once, exiting her quarters with a brief call to her men to leave their lady her privacy. Uthyr only had to glance once a Gwalchmai, for his nephew to understand the silent order. He bowed as well, a precise turn and a word to Uthyr’s men, resheathing blades, securing axes or mallets into belt loops, and drifting after Gwalchmai’s broad profile, as Uthyr assured he’d be right behind them to the assembly hall of Din Eidyn. Despite the dire tidings, he found calm in the clarity of her gaze. In the dim flickering of the hearth casting shadows across her face, her eyes held the color of spring skies, rain doused over pewter waters, back lit by golden fire where the sun would peek from clearing storms on the brightening edge of heaven. Remorse filled him, torn by the shame of lust over-riding his purpose, the deception he’d been caught at. “I have to join my brother,” he said helplessly. Stupidly, at a loss for proper parting, feeling equal parts like a thief and a swindler, though he’d stolen nothing she hadn’t seemed as equally vested to offer. Until the disruption of this news. “My mother could care less about me, but she still loves him. I owe him a last chance to see her, make his amends. He’s never stopped loving—“ With a raised hand, she quiets him. “You don’t have explain yourself Uthyr, son of Vortigern. I know.” A soft *chuffing*, a spread of shadow the shape of wings fills the wall opposite the hearth. One her ravens, pets she’s raised since girlhood, settles on its perch. One of Sisters Three, who’ve stood as guardians, companions, and guides through this rare woman’s youth, her wardens of destiny. Midnight feathered, and as large as a muscled warrior’s single arm length when wings fully spanned, the one on the highest branch of their indoor arbor cocks a ruby eye at him. Daughter of Wotan, and child of Brigantia, they are not the one eyed god’s daughters, but that of Celestial Brigantia. Other men’s superstitions might warn of the Raven’s gaze mirroring Wotan’s unwanted scrutiny. But Uthyr has spent his life forfeiting the Christian god, and cursing this Northman’s deity as well, dispelling the icy sensation of his presence in the back of mind as fancy, and calling natural science to his aid in suppressing the wild power he knows that foreign otherness can promise. Winning this woman, that ultimate Wotan seeks,

—

This stream of consciousness inspired by HistoriaBrittanorum’s Battle 8, the Battle of Caer Guinnion/the White Fortress. It could be the Fort of the Legions as well, but York’s Latin-Brythonic Name of Eboracum, actually shares a root with the Latin of Ivory (eburone,or something??…Ivory has a sense of Whitish—maybe York’s Walls, repaired by Constantine, appeared white when viewed from a distance??), along with other speculations of meaning (its British/Welsh form of Efrauc mimics the AngloSaxon ‘Eofor’ which means Boar…not related, I don’t think, unless the Boar was the standard of the VI Legion Victorius, stationed in York, but that might have been a bull actually??). The boar belonged to one of Britannia’s other legions, I think. Anyway, Nennius writes that it was this Battle in which Arthur bore the Image of the Virgin on his shield/suspended across his shoulder…like a shield. In Welsh ballad tradition, Arthur’s shield is translated as ‘The Face of the Evening’. This was a common epithet given to the Virgin Mary, But was actually a phrase directly acquired from Venus-Aphrodite, as the planet Venus appearing with the Sun and Moon as the Morning Star and Evening Star. Venus, of course, was the Babylonian-Sumerian Ishtar/Inanna. The Queen of Heaven, literally, and…another epithet of the Virgin Mary. Celestial Brigantia was another appelative for the same goddess, as understood by the Romano-British. A tutelary goddess of what had been the most influential tribe of northern Britain, even after Roman occupation, through the 3rd c AD at least. And dedications to ‘The Virgin’, meaning ‘Virgo/the Constellation’, alluded to her archaic Sumerian origins as the great Creatrix of Life/Death/Learning/Science/Poetry/Music/Agriculture/Law/Civilzation/War/Medicine/Justice/etc…all the aspects embodied historically by Inanna, the Face of the Evening, who becomes Freya-Frigg-Skathi-Nanna-Hella in the Nordic pantheon. Anyway, Arthur, Uthyr in my take, when it’s mentioned by Nennius he bears the Face of the Virgin into battle, ACTUALLY harkens to a pre-Christian concept, molded to Christian tastes, of the Archaic Virgin. IDK if that was Nennius’s intent, or if Geoffrey of Monmouth understood that context when he compiled his epic 300 years later. Maybe he did. After all, it’s Geoffrey who conceived of Morgan le Fey/of the Faery, as the most learned in medicine, math, and astronomy, of her 9 Muse-like Sisters, who resurrect not just the Muses, but 9 Gallic priestesses who resided upon Sena, off the coast of Brittany, known as the Gallicenae. And, Geoffrey liked his Queens. He had no problem writing powerful women into his epic. After all, it’s from Geoffrey Shakespeare drew his inspiration for Cymbeline and King Lear/Cordelia. Anyway, the motifs of the Arthurian codex, resound from (my own speculation) a much earlier, borrowed concept lying somewhere between Inanna, and Athena’s aegis of the Gorgon (Medusa, being an aspect of Athena actually, and Andromeda as well. The name alone of Andromeda, means, in simplistic breakdown, ‘Ruler of Men’. And the symbolism when she’s chained to the rocks before the Sea-monster, Cetus, mirrors Inanna in the Underworld, having passed the 7 Gates of Hell, stripped of her Status, judged and condemned by her Sister, Ereshkigal, to be hung by chains, and tortured into death for her arrogance in daring to conquer the Land of the Dead). I love how unsentimental these first Sumerian myths were before they became softened by later Greek and Roman classical writers. What Anglo-Norman Medieval authors borrowed in the term Virgin, has nothing to do with purity, or a woman with an intact hymen. Virgins slept with men, or women whenever they wanted. The even had children, with or without a male progenitor. The oldest sense of the word ‘Virgin’ was an heroic woman. A woman complete into herself, who took on the traditional tasks of men, and women, w/o the assistance of a man. Or, like a Shield Maid, ALONGSIDE AND EQUAL with a man. Risking death, torture, rape, loss, or whatever else stood in her way (think Lagertha of Vikings), to triumph in the exact same conditions as their male counterparts. Sometimes with more ruthlessness, or more compassion, but human all the same, and judged by her actions before her gender/sex put a label on those actions. A Virgin has no bond with a husband, to whom she was subservient. That’s all the word meant. Thus, Guinevere—The Face of the Evening, the Raven Queen, Ruler of Valentia Beyond the Walls, uniting the Picts and the Northern British houses under the Banner of Old Brigantia, to the aide of a southern prince, a son of Tyrants. Uthyr, bastard son of Vortigern, begotten in an act of humiliation upon Ygerna, the wife of Vortimer, Vortigern’s eldest son, dishonoring Vortimer for his rebellion against his father. In Uther’s veins runs the blood of Irish nobility (Ygerna comes from the tale of Ingren, the daughter of the Leinster King, Crimthann mac Ennais—here, as in Welsh geneolgies—Ingren/Ygerna is the daughter of Amlothi/Hamlet actually, a Danish Sea Raider who sleeps with one of 3 wives of Crimthann— and joins the Irish dynasties of the Deisi and the DalRiada to the British/Picti/Germanic families inhabiting the lands United from the Atlantic to the Irish Sea and North Sea and the Black Sea rim), Roman magistrates, and Waelsung heritage (Sigfrid, Sigmund, and Sinfjatli of Niebelung fame) that have shaped Uthyr as a son of Vortigern, rebelling against his father, and allied with Danish/Swedish/Geatish houses of Northmen, who have their own rivalries against fellow Danes/Swedes/Jutes/Saxons. Geoffrey’s Yder/Idris/Hidernus/Edern/Eurderyn—Eutharios/Eutigern—of the Black Danes, becomes my Uther, allied with Hrothgar/Swerta, an exiled Dane living amongst the Angles of NE Britain (This is based off Hrolf Kraki Saga. The Danish king of Beowulf, Hrothgar/Hroar…Rodger in English , who’s forever a battle-brother of Uther, in later decades. It was said Hrothgar converted to Christianity, and ruled his hall of Heort/sp?? as a Christian King). Uthyr, a quasi-outlaw, exiled bastard residing between Gaul, Scandinavia, and Byzantium in his youth, a mercenary andca Sea Wolf/Sea-Raider finally reuniting with his older brother, the renowned Vortimer/Riothamus/Embreis Wledig, to wrest back their authority to rule from their father, and the Jutish/Saxon houses opposed to the Danes/Geat/Angles. Arthur comes later, as Guinever’s son, either—and both—by Uther and Theoderic the Great. Dynastic imperatives here span the transformation of Western and Northern Europe from Scandinavia to Ostrogothic Italy, and in-between. Guinevere, Uther, and Theoderic, encompass a strategy of this New World of civilizing Romanized Barabarians, amalgamations of Tribal cultures reviving old Roman precepts of rule and law, between Britannia on the Western end of Old Empire, to Ostrogothic Italy, that Theoderic seeks to establish as independent from Constantinople. Lying in their midst, a lion at the heart of Gallia, are the Franks, with Clovis clawing the Merovingian hold to sever Britannia, and Visigothic Spain, from Italy. Willing to ally with Byzantium to do so, in order to distract Theoderic into defending his eastern territories of the Adriatic, Clovis succeeds in driving the last of his Visigoth brethren out of Gaul, and the inception of the Kingdom of the Franks arrives like a tempest. And finds Uther slain with his long-time war-band on the fields of Poitier, in 507, and Arthagenes (a version of a title of Hercules/the Hindu-Hellenic-Persian Verethragna. The name resembles variations of Artogenes/Bear Kin or Bear Prince/Artius/Arthan/and Artogneu…from that hideous inscription, but in my mind, while not ‘King Arthur’, lends enough similarity to said names, I’m comfortable basing his persona, ultimately, off the mythic concept of Arkas/Arcas, the Bear Prince, who circles Polaris, son of the Bear Goddess/Artio-Artemis-Callisto, and the War-Lord/and the Guardian of the stars, Bootes and Draco), his son, or Throderic’s, serving in Theoderic’s forces, in the counter-campaign to win back southern Gaul from Clovis. Incidentally, one of Theoderic’s generals bears the name Ebba, or at times conflated as Eobba (like the Bernician king of the Anglo-Saxon king lists), as well as Ida—the first king of Anglians who defeats ‘Outigern’ (in my take, the son of Arthagenes, by a northern princess, Vivian/Nuvien—Nimue-which is Gaelicized as Bebhionn, and feeds into the renaming of Din Guardi as Bebenburg, after Ida marries the British princess, Beara, according to certain chroniclers of later era. Beara is my Nuvien, a British saint actually, and the name from which Vivian and Nimue derive, and Dutigern, her son, a form of Outecorigas, recorded on Celtic inscription from Dyfed, I think, as a Protector of the Region.) Where Ida accepts Outigern as a son, And so, at Din Guardi/Bamburgh in 547AD, Ida establishes the kingdom of Bernicia. That will, by his grandon’s time, unite under Aella of the Deirans, forming Northumbria. The Star of the North, and its emerging repository of Anglo-Celtic-Roman culture by 600-800AD. This segment involves my revision of Theoderic’s daughter, Amalsuentha (a version of Melisande), actually being rescued from her assassination (she was strangled in a bath, around 534, by her cousin who coveted the throne of the Ostrogoths, which opened up Justinian’s excuse to invade Italy), as more of an comedic abduction by Offa/Yffi of the Deira/East Angles, Ida, and Cethegus, whose my version of the warrior-saint, Cathog/Cathomalos. She becomes my version of Marcia—founder of Mercian law, as Geoffrey attributes Alfred the Great’s codex of law and rule procedure to a Marcia, a great queen of wisdom and courage, who…probably didn’t exist. Anyway, I’ve now expounded to the point of random outline, and the tale which falls between my 2nd Century Artorius Castus Tale (that might go back to 1st Century Cartimandua, Agricola, and Arviragus/Genvissa, as mentioned by Geoffrey), and PreRev Paris with Jefferson and his Scottish lady physician. As an underscore to the Uther/Guinevere tract of Gwen as Queen, and Defender of the North, later Uther’s Wife, and Theoderic’s lover, there’s this scene that comes from the Welsh Mabiniogion, of Culhwch and Olwen. The tale is basically a Welsh version of the Norse myth of Svipdag-Odr, and Menglod. Svips is cursed by his step-mother to only fall in love with a particular woman, who happens to be the daughter of a fearsome giant, and impossible to win. Unless the hero undergoes a series of impossible feats which he overcomes, of course, to finally win his bride, and kill her monster-father. Anyway, there’s this passage Arthur speaks when his cousin, Culhwch arrives at Arthur’s hall, seeking some Band of Bros to help in his quest of Lady Love. Basically, I’m a kow-tow to those ‘rules of hospitality’ we like to romanticize were inherent to tribal societies of Germanic and Teutonic origin, Arthur welcomes his cousin with every promise to provide him with anything he needs on his quest, except [paraphrased from rusty neurons]: “…my sword, my spear, my dagger, my ship, my shield, and…my Wife, Gwenhwyfar.” Every time I come across this line, I think that’s either the coarsest of insults to his wife, and his queen, listed in an intinerary of his weapons. Or, it’s the most oblique of compliments to his wife. As Guinevere is his greatest weapon, even over his other enchanted implements, and won’t be utilized to any other man’s cause than his own. I’d like to add, that would be at her discretion of course. Anyway, it’s this exchange I use between Uther and Theoderic the first time they meet on the eve of Badon 2.0, after Gwen has escaped Frankish forces. And masterminded winning a bunch of heavy cavalry to her cause/Uther’s cause in the civil wars erupting across their island in the late 480s-491/493AD. This coincides with Clovis’s campaign against Soisson and the last Roman count, Syragius’s kingdom, falling to Frankish hands. Somewhere in there, I fanciful-ize Theoderic has come to Northern Gaul in the years of his own campaign to win Italy against Adavacrius (my Erp/Hyrp/Tge AngloSaxon Eadawacer—the son of Gudrun of the Nibelungs-Burgundians, and the widow of Sigfrid of the Walsungs. He’s Odovacer, the Heruli chieftain who deposed the last Roman Emperor, in 476), seeking an alliance with Clovis, a most brilliant and Mschiavellian ruler of Merovingian bent, asking for Clovis’s sister, Audafleda, as his bride (she does eventually marry him—the mother of Amalsuintha). Somewhere in there, we have Gwen being betrayed by her own sister, Cywyllog, whose married to Medrod, Uther’s nephew/cousin, and Gwen trying to reach Uther in Brittany/Aremorica, as he’s fighting for/or against Clovis, depending on when Clovis attempts invading north of Orlean, into the lands of Alani tribesmen, and the British colonizers of Brittany. In an attempt to set the truth before Uther that there’s been a conspiracy weaving lies that she’s tried seducing/promising their lands to Cerdic of the Gewisse/Wessex and his son Cynric, when it’s actually their daughter Gwenog, she’s promised to Cerdic’s son when they’ve come of age, attempting to win an alliance against Medrod/Cywyllog, Medrod’s messengers reach Uther first, and Clovis’s troops intercept Gwen’s small landing party, killing her own guard, and capturing her. Brought before, he disavows her, and rips off her neck-ring, that bore the symbol of Brigantia, and the right of her rule of the North. That Uther truly has no authority to deny her. His action breaks the alliance of Alba from Britannia, and only lends further fuel to Medrod’s attempt at usurpation in Britain. The fracturing of allegiances proves beneficial to Clovis, while he entertains Theoderic’s proposal. Uther, casting off his wife as a traitor, readies to return to Britain, facing the the forces of Medrod, his and allies of varying Irish/Northern British/Teutonic mix (where we see Onale/Aella Bretwalda, and his sons, Cymen-Cissa and Wlencing, arrive enforce, a Nordic king establishing a foothold in Sussex—the tale involving the clash of Swedish-Geatish-Norwegian-Danish-Anglian houses, from the tale of Ohtere and Onela, and the sons of Ohtere, Eanmund and Athislus/Aedgils). Gwen’s leftvin the custody of the Franks, to be disposed of or dealt with after the coming wars. It’s here Theoderic crosses paths with Gwen, his first love from decades before, when they been teens/young adults coming of age in Rome, in the last years leading up to Odovacer’s victory. And Theoderic, never trusting Clovis, devises an entirely different plan than what he’d first come north for, his own war stalled at the Walls of Ravenna, and needing a naval fleet to blockade the harbor that keeps Odovacer afloat, and fending off the final victory of the Ostrogoths. In a borrowing of the legend of St Genevieve of Paris, Clovis sends Gwen on a time wasting errand to Tours, where she’s meant to secure a bread supply fending off famine in Paris, whilst she, of her own design, crosses paths with Clothilde, and arranges a marriage between Christian Frankish princess and the heathen Merovingian conqueror. Theoderic’s 1000 Strong Sarmatian Cavalry who have served him as indentured warriors since his defeat of their city, Singidunum, in 474AD, sweeps in as the entourage returns from Tours to Paris, Theoderic intent on rescuing Gwen back to Itsly, or using her as hostage-ransom to win Uthyr’s naval force of Black Danes. Backstory here is, Gwen and Theo didn’t part well in Rome all those years ago, when he only knew her as some British orphan, and later discovered her heritage as a princess of northern Pictish/Roman British nobility, made an offer of marriage to her at that time just after his father had passed away, leaving Theoderic the heir of the Wandering Kingdom of Ostrogoth Amalungs. He rejection out of loyalty to her father and her people offended him, thinking she spurned him out of pride, thinking herself superior to his barbarian heritage, however Romanized, educated in the court’s of Constantinople. And once more, it’s Gwen who rejects his proposal, but w/o allies in the wilds of Northern Gaul/Frisia, where Theoderic’s forces are camped, she learns of his Cavalry, their decent from the other 2500 Horselords who had been sent into exile by Marcus Aurelius centuries ago. And it’s Gwen, a descendent of those same Sarmatians, the other 5500 Iazyges, sent to Britain by Marcus Aurelius centuries back, on the side of her Pictish mother, whose blood ran back to the Horse Goddess of the Sarmatians when she and her warrior-priestessss first arrived in Britain (see the intriguing grave finds of 2 women buried with weapons and Cavalry armor from Brougham found in 2004–thought to be of Hungarian origin, and dared to mid 3rd c AD), following their men to exile. And it’s Gwen who speaks the old tongue of Saranyu, mounted on a stallion, galloping amongst 1000 Catarphactii, with their Standard aloft in her hand, moving between their ranks, and rallying them in the language of the Iazyges, turning Theoderic’s offer for refuge in exchange for becoming his queen or mistress, and instead, compelling 1000 HorseLords to her cause, tge cause of Britannia, by weight of her lineage, and the promise to no longer “be considered slaves, but citizens” with lands of their own upon British shores if they were, to once more, fight on the Isle of Mists, for her king, and her land (mmm, I always loved that scene of Daenerys suddenly winning the Slave Army of Unsullied…this is my tribute of the Raven Queen to the Dragon Queen. Cliche is as cliche does…but, I’m hoping my version contains some originality). And Theoderic, thinking himself the savior, suddenly becomes the usurped, as his own officers, Vidia, Hjalmar, drawn from the sagas of Thiodrrek, always loyal to him, follow her command to apprehend and restrain him, till she can figure out what to with him. Which, in her Gwen way, involves an intimate scene, and Theideric’s Promise to fightvat her side, in support of Uther. Which is where we arrive with Theoderic and Uther meeting. A very stoic and grieving Uther, whose son, Llacheu, had been slain, the son of his youth, fathered years before with the matron/abbess of the monestary-college where he’d been educated outside of Avillion/Gaul. And who’d sought service in Uther’s court when he’d come to adulthood. Uther, who’d taken his dead son to The isle of St Michael’s Mount, in a confrontation with Medrod’s greater numbers, in a battle he’d thought lost initially, until the 11th Hour arrival of his wife, who he’d cast off in a rage of jealousy and intriguing falsehoods. And by the gods’ justice, he’d been punished by the loss of his closest brothers, Cei amongst them, and Medrod, who he’d always loved, turned against them. Gwen, once the enemy was in retreat, beaten once, but hardly defeated, who searched for her husband in a panicked dread, not finding him amongst the fallen, but following the trail of bodies strewn in his wake all the way to the tidal Chanel looking out to St Michels. And the beacon, the pyre burning there, where dead Llacheu lay, with his father mourning him, who wished to die himself. Haunted by the the ghost of his dreams, his wife and Queen, the mother of his son and daughter, guardian of his vision, takes shape out the shadows of a ruined villa’s garden—where flames dance in the night as Llacheu’s body turns to ash and smoke, and the stars witness with icy diamond beauty, the tragedy of men inviting war and sorrow. She wakes in his arms with the dawn, and he knows this was dream. He sees the neckring in place of the one he’d torn from her throat, bearing the insignia of the Wulkknot, 3 interlaced triangles, just above her collarbone, and Uther knows this as the Sign of Wotan. And the Symbol of the Ostrogoth Amalungs. Her lips are soft upon his, her gray eyes, clear as the sun shimmering across the steel waters with the dawn, entreat him. “You’ve lost a son, but where a brother has fallen, and one turned traitor, you may have gained another. Meet him, Eurdeyrn. And you might find a kindred soul there.” Which finds him striding through their camp, arrayed to allow for a makeshift infirmary, where Gwen will serve later, and the commander’s quarters marked by the standards and banners of the companies of his army. The cheers resounding through the throngs as his officers welcome him in a rush of greetings, condolences, assurances of faith, and endurance, these men who’ve bled and wept with him, to victory and loss. And more, the furious cheer that rises through the assembly grounds, at sight of his Queen at his side. North and South, Alba and Britannia United once more. He pauses. The guards align, stepping aside to allow for Uther and this Ostrogoth lord, followed by his own comitatus/elite officers—some them who’d committed sedition only 3 days ago, at the pledge of this Queen they all believe a goddess in human form, rather Horse Queen reborn. Gwen has never hestitated to take advantage of old symbolisms, equine goddesses or Ravens some of the most powerful divinties many of these nomads or barbarian tribes, recognize, only a generation or two as converts to Christ, separating them from their pagan forefathers. He’s well-formed, this Maering, a barbarian Cheiftain who styles himself an enlightened philosopher king. A guarded look locks with his, eyes of marine seas meet Uther’s amber gaz. aquiline features of boldness and depth define the high brow, the angular cheeks, fine nose nose, and strong jaw. An assembly not unlike Uther’s own, Theoderic’s grandeur smacks of brightened and sun, a lion in his prime, his red-gold hair plainted, the fine stubble of his beard, flecked with gray. Theyre of an age, and similar physique, each just on the other side of four decades, Uther’s image, more somber, the Winter King indeed, tresses of oak brown drawn back, long at his neck, his posture straight, muscled body riddled with scars of old wounds, his joints feeling the damp and cold more so than in younger days.

[tigerstrikesasteroidnetwork]

LA / catherine SCOTI scott: Holla

catherine SCOTI scott: Holla August 3 - 25, 2019 Opening Reception: August 3rd 7-10pm

[Images]

“One may engage in strategic performance in the interest of survival employing the same skills one uses to perform in the interest of ritual play, yet the performance standpoint alters both the nature and impact of the performance.” - bell hooks, Performance Practice as a Site of Opposition

In his unpublished notes for a book on Beethoven, Theodor W. Adorno wrote, “The will, the energy that sets form in motion in Beethoven, is always the whole, the Hegelian World Spirit”. In Beethoven’s Fifth, the work of synthesizing the individual with the world spirit is accomplished through overcoming the difficult struggle of tensions: between inner and outer, between the opening motif with everything that is to come, the syncopation, the abnormal disturbance of the rhythm, the rift between surface and subcutaneous elements, the range from fortissimo to pianissimo that overwhelms the individual and absorbs them into the world spirit.

As Adorno writes of the Fifth, “The aesthetic integration of the symphonic structure is at the same time the pattern of a social integration.” However, the question must be raised, what remains of this “social integration”? What experiences and histories, including of Beethoven’s own experiences, does this synthesis obfuscate? catherine SCOTI scott creates a language in “Love as an Action” to explore the experiences and traumas of the black female body that have been sacrificed for this story and remain unacknowledged. The creation of a narrative about Beethoven’s identity stands in direct contradiction to the dissonance in his music. It was well known to the Viennese elites that Beethoven had African roots …  

catherine SCOTI scott is a performance artist, dancer, cultural worker and ethnologist based in Los Angeles. She received her MFA from Otis College of Art & Design, BA in Political Science and studied a masters in Dance and Ethnology at UCLA. She performed at Palm Springs Museum of Art, Made in LA 2018, REDCAT, 18th Street Art Center, Highways Performance Space, Beta Main Museum and Ben Maltz Gallery in Los Angeles and  has held workshops at Open Engagement in Chicago and at USC in Los Angeles.

In her work she fuses narrative and movement to create a message and heightened awareness of the human condition. Working from a conceptual framework of art as transformation, her practice explores how to engage with others through, experiences, objects, and ideas to shift thinking and actions around issues of inequity, social justice and quality of life. The performed body becomes a vessel of embodied knowledge and a repository of individual and collective history. By utilizing mixed media, photography, spoken word and food she creates rituals, and deep sensory experiences.

Shaped from a lifelong experience and commitment to spiritual, social and political growth instilled at an early age in a family of activist and artist I came of age in the 70’s. This shaped her values and influences. From Katherine Dunham to Paulo Friere these influences shaped her choice of medium, content and presentation. She appropriates multiple media and aesthetics to inform her work combining music, movement, and visuals to communicate both personal and collective memory through a multi-sensory experience. Early study in dance and performance influenced her to perform narratives.

[mujournalismabroad]

Tips for traveling in Europe

Story and photos by Madeleine Sutherland from Edinburgh, Scotland

[Budapest, Hungary]

When I began my trip abroad, I told everyone how much I was going to travel. It seemed like dreaming big at first but now, twelve countries later, I've got a big warehouse of knowledge in my mind I want to share because hey, I did it! I traveled! The problem with traveling a lot is that it puts a thirst in you that's unquenchable. Where to next? I think Australia, probably.

Below is my list of general tips for traveling Europe on a budget.

Hostels

Hostelworld.com: This website gives the best ratings and honest reviews. Any accredited, legit hostel will be on this website.

I usually go for ones with about an 8.4 rating or above. This may sound like a random number, but I've found it's kind of the sweet spot.

Check if your hostel has towels, linens, lockers and locks available before you stay there. Usually, hostels will charge for locks and towels but linens and lockers will be provided.

 Airbnb

Airbnb can be a great option when you are traveling with one to three other people! The hosts are usually super kind and will give you tips on how to see sites and get around. Many of my trips were made great by the amazing hospitality I received from Airbnb hosts. The site is also super easy to book on and reviews can be trusted.

The best Airbnb I ever stayed at was in Zürich with Allan and Yvonne. If you plan to go there, look them up! Their home was so welcoming and comfortable and they are the cutest, kindest people. (Allan was a Cards fan, so I knew right away we were in good hands)

Transportation

Public transit is no joke in Europe! Most of the time it is cheap and easy to find and understand. Why the U.S. has not caught up with this does not make sense to me.

Ryanair and easyJet will become your best friends because they are usually the cheapest airlines that do the most flights throughout Europe. Ryanair flights are almost always delayed and easyJet only allows one carry-on bag. They kind of suck, but they get you where you need to go.

Take metros and buses from airports whenever possible, especially in Paris, Prague, Munich, Amsterdam, and Barcelona.

Take trains from cities that are close together. It will cost SO MUCH LESS than flying, and train rides through the country are often very beautiful.

Most city public transit systems are based on trust, especially if it's a metro train without a ticket gate or a tram. I would advise to always validate your tickets or else risk an embarrassing public transit citation, which can get expensive.

[Montepulciano, Tuscany, Italy]

Food and drink

Do not tip in Europe. You are on a budget, and most places expect nothing as a tip. So don't feel bad if you don't! Unless you receive extra-great service, leave it. Most places add a service charge into the bill anyway.

There is no such thing as splitting bills beforehand in Europe. If eating with a group, you will each have to count up how much you spent after the bill comes. Sometimes you can pay certain amounts on card machines, but in many cases, they will only accept either one card or all cash.

That's another thing, always have cash with you. You will end up spending it one way or another.

Don't be surprised if you don't get served right away or if they don't bring you the bill right after you finish your meal. You have to ask for the bill when you want it. Waiters in Europe like to take their sweet time and consider it rude to try to rush you out after eating. Flag down the waiter when you need the bill or tell them in advance if you're in a rush.

If a waiter puts water or bread on your table in a non-U.K. country without you asking them to do so, they are trying to get you to eat/drink it so they can charge you for it. And most times, that innocent-looking bread basket on the table will cost about 8 Euro.

Running off of that, there is no such thing as free water in mainland Europe. Drill that into your head and buy yourself a reusable water bottle. Tap water is all fine to drink in Europe but they won't serve it to you because they want to charge you every chance they get. Take your own water into restaurants in a bag or pocket. (Scotland and Ireland, however, do have free tap water on request. Go Scoty!!)

The drinking age pretty much everywhere is 18. Try new beers and wines and forget about that disgusting Natty Light you've been drinking.

Safety

People who do the following things are trying to get money from you: 

Accepting a flower or trinket at a touristy site. 

Getting unwanted help using metro ticket machines.

Getting handed free metro tickets.

Getting un-asked-for directions.

Language

Try to learn a little of the language everywhere you go! It will go a long way, especially in Italy, Spain, France and Germany. And it's fun!

Most countries will have things in English. I found that Germany, Austria and Italy really didn't, however. Be ready to Google translate some things.

Being American

For some reason, every U.S. citizen abroad has one thing in common: We kick ourselves for being American when we meet people from other countries. I'm not sure why, perhaps it's the fear of being seen as stupid or ignorant because of our citizenship. My biggest piece of advice is this: If you act like a dumb American, you will be called a dumb American. If you act like a normal, kind human being, then no one will bring up where you're from. There's no need to feel bad about being American. Just try not to be that person who is extra loud or a know-it-all. Every European and Australian I've met has a good view of Americans as people. 

Planning

This is especially true in Rome. Book literally everything in Rome beforehand. The lines are so long you will feel sick just looking at them. Don't be the bum that stands in line for three hours to see the Sistine Chapel.

[Lake Lucerne, Switzerland]

Other important things

Be a positive, problem-solving traveler. Keeping a good attitude sounds so basic, yet it's the absolute key to enjoying each trip you take and making sure you don't annoy the crap out of the people you travel with. Complaining gets old SO FAST. Focus on positive things. When you mess up, realize it is normal to do so and that things will work out. Be patient. Be the one to say something good instead of the one to point out every bad thing. You will get tired, hungry, thirsty and your feet will hurt. Complaining won't change those things, it'll just piss off your group.

Wear good shoes and be prepared to trash them. I have three pairs of shoes I've completely torn to shreds on this trip because of all the walking. Do not skimp on good shoes!!! To give you an idea, the main shoes I've worn are my tennies, a pair of black, waterproof Timberlands and a cognac pair of leather Kork-Ease booties. Everyone wears boots in Europe in the spring, fall and winter. You will not regret splurging on a couple nice pairs before your trip. I've heard American Shoe in Columbia sells some really great stuff. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

Coats go along with this! Since I lived in Scotland, I needed three different weights of coat. I had a large winter one, a thicker rain jacket and a light rain jacket. I have used all three.

Please drink water. Drink so much water you want to throw up. Okay, not really. But stay hydrated. Get that water bottle.

If you see a bathroom, use it. This is one of the most key things I could ever say. In huge cities like Rome and Paris, there is no such thing as a public restroom.

Get yourself a portable battery. You will use it, I promise!

If you are going to be based in one country in Europe for any long amount of time, consider getting a SIM card from your home country. I found a carrier in Scotland that, by getting a SIM card from them, provided me with 13G of international data for only 20 pounds a month. That data saved me on a lot of my trips. (Sorry mom and dad. I'm only so good at reading real maps)

Download the Google Photos application. It automatically puts any photo you take on your phone onto the application so you won't have to worry about storage for photos as you travel.

Download the XE application to get current exchange rates for any country.

Put your phone/computer in military time. Most if not all travel times and ticket times are listed in military time in Europe.

Try to learn European measurements, including temperature. It will take time, but is a valuable life skill to have.

Lastly, just try to take everything in as best you can. Each travel experience is different, and mine is probably much different from what yours will turn out to be. It's Europe! So have a blast and make as many friends as you can. I promise you, your heart can hold so much more love for human kind than you ever thought possible.

[scotisfr]

Having fun with magazine photos and some stickers. It look cool when I don't have much to write about.

[scotianostra]

On 10th March 560, St Kessog, the Irish missionary in the Lennox area and southern Perthshire, was killed.

It’s not often we go back over 1500, but Kessog was an important religious figure back then, and is considered to have been patron saint of Scotland before we were even a nation, and certainly before St Andrew

We know precious little about Saint Kessog, also known as MacKessog, Kessock or MacKessock, but it was a long-standing tradition in the Celtic Church that he was murdered by pagans on March 10, 520, and that date remains his feast day even now.

As is always the case in the days before any sort of written historical record was made in Scotland, much of what we do know about Kessog is based on oral tradition – which by its nature tends towards the legendary and even the mythical.

There is no doubt, however, that Kessog existed and that he was a Christian missionary mainly in the lands we know as the Lennox, around Dumbarton, but almost everything else about him must be taken on trust though, as we shall see, there are considerable clues about him scattered around Scotland.

Tradition has it that Kessog was born into a royal family of Munster in Ireland, perhaps the King of Cashel, around the year 460.

One of the myths about him concerns a supposed incident in his childhood. The sons of a number of princes who were visiting the king were drowned in a swimming accident that may well have been caused by Kessog, who was the only survivor.

Nothing daunted, the boy took to his knees and prayed all night, and in the morning the drowned children were restored to life, thereby averting likely wars with the various princes.

He was destined for a holy life, and as a youngster he came under the influence of St Patrick who would then have been in his 70s. Patrick had by then created hundreds of churches and other Christian institutions across Ireland, and is said to have personally baptised 100,000 people.

Patrick sent Kessog to the monastery of another saint, Mo Chaoi, often written as Malachoi, which was located at Nendrum in County Down. Mochaoi, whose real name was Caolan, had been sent by Patrick to found the monastery which lasted until the Vikings sacked it in the 10th century.

Having been ordained a monk and then a bishop, it was decided that Kessog should go to the land of the Scoti, the Irish tribes who had made their home in what is now Argyll, creating a kingdom which is known as Dalriada.

It is not known why Kessog then struck east into the “debatable lands” between the Scots, the Picts and the Britons of the Kingdom of Strathclyde headquartered at Dumbarton. But if he was indeed a disciple of Patrick then there is an obvious connection, for despite all claims to the contrary, the most favoured location for the birth and youth of Patrick is Old Kilpatrick on the River Clyde just 10 miles from Loch Lomond which lay at the heart of the lands of Lennox. Indeed Lennox derives from Levenax, pertaining to the River Leven which courses from Loch Lomond to the River Clyde.

It is not plausible that Patrick decided to send a missionary to an area he would have known well in his childhood?

The Lennox would not become a recognised earldom until many centuries later, but Kessog appears to have become the apostle of the Lennox area, preaching the Christian faith all around Loch Lomond and through into Perthshire and as far north as modern Inverness. If that was the case, then he preached the gospel to the Picts 40 years earlier than Columba.

I wrote earlier about the clues to Kessog and where he worked, and those clues are place names. The saint is said to have founded a monastery on an island in Loch Lomond, Inchtavannach, which means island of the monk’s house. Local tradition has it that Inchtavannach’s highest point Tom nan Clag, the hill of the bell, got its name from Kessog installing a bell on the summit which with he summoned monks and laity to prayer. Certainly there was a bell associated with Kessog as it was listed in the funeral investitures of the Earldom of Perth as late as 1695.

Going north, a hill near the River Teith in Perthshire is known as Tom na Chessaig or Hill of Kessog, and there were mediaeval churches named after Kessog in Auchterarder and Comrie.

South Kessock in Inverness, North Kessock on the Black Isle and the Kessock Bridge on the north side of Inverness are named after him, reflecting the long tradition that the saint preached thereabouts.

Kessog’s successful mission to the people around Loch Lomond angered the local pagans possibly led by druids. They are said to have either killed Kessog themselves or bribed mercenaries to do it.

The place of his martyrdom is traditionally at Bandry Bay near Luss village on the Lochside – well known as the location for Glendarroch in STV’s Take the High Road soap. A cairn of stones marked the site of his death for centuries.

Luss has long been associated with Kessog, as he founded a church there in 510. The church was later named after him and an effigy of the saint dating from before the Reformation can be found in the church.

There is also St Kessog’s RC Church and St Kessog’s Primary School in Balloch at the southern end of Loch Lomond.

So plenty of local Lennox connections to Kessog but was he patron saint of Scotland?

The cult of Andrew developed fairly late in Christian life in Scotland, and it is known that Robert the Bruce, for one, had a particular veneration for Kessog.

The Bruce took refuge at Luss in 1306 and was cared for by a local laird. As king he would later grant a charter to John of Luss “for the reverence and honour of our patron, the most holy man, the blessed Kessog”.

In 1323 the king made the church of Luss and its surroundings a place of sanctuary “to God and the blessed Kessog”, as the charter states.

Scottish soldiers in the War of Independence also shouted the saint’s name as a battle cry, and relics of Kessog were said to have been carried into battle by the Scots.

In one modern respect Kessog is up among the top Scottish saints – along with Andrew, Ninian, Magnus, and Mungo, he has an oil  field named after him in the North Sea.

The pics are an effigy of St Kessog in Luss Church, a statue  at St Kessog's  Episcopal , Auchterarder, and a statue of the saint at Luss. 

[therealvagabird]

Notes on the Avian Variations

A study of the winged beastfolk.

A bit of world-building from one of my older, but more expansive fantasy worlds. This is actually relevant to the species of the lovely Scotie’s OC, Oir Weathervane. I just like indulging in some in-universe note writing. Sorry if there’s some errors, I didn’t do as many revisions as I normally do.

           “Avian” is a term given to those members of the broad beastfolk races that hold the traits of birds. From the great forests of the south to the northern peaks, avians are some of the more elusive of the wildling kin. Their taste for great elevations and their unique biology—even among beastkin—makes them rare sights outside of their usual territories.

           As with all beastfolk substrains, there has been mush division among scholars as to the classification of avians. Some felt that the species that bore wings on more mannish forms should instead be classified as a form of fey, or elf, while some even wanted to undertake auric autopsies to see if there wasn’t some connection to the angelic spirits. The same division occurred over those avians who were little more than birds with advanced cognition. However, in modern times, there is a greater degree of contentment with the classification of the “avian beastfolk” as being all those crossbreeds that hold a roughly anthropomorphic shape, and can fly (if of the winged breeds) without the assistance of magics.

           The avians are a massive subsection, as being beastfolk they display traits of almost every known species of bird as well as some outliers. Whether this is the result of ancient magical experimentation drawing traits from select species, the byproduct of some manner of conflux, bizarre evolution, or reused elements from a divine schematic, the fact remains that each tribe to be discovered must be catalogued in isolation before it can be shown as anything like any other avian breed. From the man-birds of the Medzal Jungles to the mighty warriors of the Vultan Mountains, avians are adapted to whatever climes might shelter them.

           Despite the diversity, most breeds have been noted as having some common traits intrinsic to the survival of a half-breed. First of these being the organ structure: as the birdfolk have a much more robust musculature and a unique style of locomotion—paired with the physique of a humanoid, they must metabolize food at an accelerated rate. Diets high in protein and strengthening minerals are valued, whether carnivore and omnivore, and avians are seldom seen with an excess of fat—in terms of the species itself. Some avians have the wingspan needed to lift increased heft! Either way, avian chicks (whether born live or shelled depending on the exact species) tend to have a dearth of body fat for infants, and so are liable to die if not cared for soon after birth.

           The unique organs of avians also allow for broader diets than what is normal for humans, elves, hyldun, or even dwarves. Being beastfolk, they are less susceptible to the illnesses of raw food, and have tastes more “advanced” than what some might find appealing. They also have much sturdier digestive systems: capable of breaking down fibrous substances like seeds or tough greens in their gizzards. Some species are also in possession of a hidden gland at the base of their neck that allows the storage and processing of food before it reaches the stomach, as well. The largest split between species (as with birth) is found in waste expulsion mechanisms—the more bird-leaning strains may have cloacae, while the more human*-leaning have the relevant separation. Avian lungs tend to be much more robust as well, able to filter very thin air from the high altitudes. The quantity of organs, paired with the wing musculature outlines later, tend to leave most avians with rather broad chests.

           *A note: though the human form is often used as a baseline comparison for anthropomorphizing—occupying a middle ground among the common races—most avians tend to display traits closer to those of elves, including pointed ears longer than most elf-kin.

           Of course, the most recognizable feature of the majority of avian breeds are their wings. The species run the length from small, halfling-like songbirds, to the grand hawkmen warriors. Plumage can be the best indicator for the closest bird breed to the relevant tribe, in coloration and shape. Different wings may also bestow certain properties relevant to the given bird, from great speed, to maneuverability, to simple beautiful color that is often mirrored in the skin and eyes of even the human anatomy they’re mixed with. To fly without the assistance of magic, the wings’ presence leads to a bizarre anatomy hidden under the feathers. Though some subspecies have evolved grasping capabilities on their normal wings, this will address the six-limbed groups:

A second set of shoulder blades will be nestled just below the first pair, adjusted in size and shape to connect to the relevant bones forming the rest of the wing. The bones of most avians will not be hollow, though will be of less stern stuff than that of the common races, ensuring the often-lanky creatures can both stand and fly unharmed. As great force is needed to generate enough lift for flight, strong muscles connect the wings to the humanoid back, with some even wrapping around to the sides of the torso, leading to a very “broad-shouldered look” for the stronger avians. Feathers from the wings may cover almost the entire back, even on the less “hirsuit” breeds, disguising what might otherwise be a very odd shape to the creatures’ backs. A quick way to tell a true avian from (even more bizarre) something like an angel, is the presence of rudder feathers. Birdfolk have an advanced tailbone from which grows their hind feathers, used for unenchanted flight. The feathers of the wings and tail are oft connected along the spine, and the tail is as flexible as is needed for convenience—it will almost never drape beyond the heels of the individual, unless of an exotic paradise breed.

           Due to the weight of the bare avian frame, wingspans are enormous. Massive. They often strength longer on each end than the individual is tall. When folded, this is not as apparent, though when extended the force of liftoff flapping has been said to bowl over bystanders, or (more a boon) enemy combatants. The development of these wings is often complete by the end of adolescence, which precedes human adolescence by a small increment (it is unknown if the shorter lifespans common to beastfolk is a result of their biology, or the less advanced living conditions they seem to prefer. Civilized beast-tribes or lone members are either rare, or difficult to contact). An interesting note is that, if not nurtured by those of their own kind, it may take much longer for the wings to mature to workable size. It is believed that this might be a secret held in the parenting methods of avian culture. Even if neglected, however, the wings will tend to reach full size by adulthood.

           Such are the most prominent features of avians, or avian beastfolk, to the natural philosophies. These factors combine to form a curious race at the core, demanding specialized differences in their life processes, and impressive to behold, as anyone who has been speared to death by a Vultani Skyblade can attest. Further inquiries will be undertaken on the most prominent aspects of avian culture, assuming the Council renews my funding…

—Enlightening adventures upon you.

[badgerkinky]

Ce am invatat de cand sunt adolescent.   1.Scoala te invata prostiile societati. 2.Hainele de firma te fac ori adolescent fitos ori adolescent de banii gata 3.Banii pe care ii ai la scoala zilnic te fac ori superior ori inferior. 4.Notele mici te descriu ca o persoana proasta, notele mari ca fiind o persoana cu un viitor in viata 5.Daca fumezi tigari de tip Ashima,Marble esti sarac. 6.Daca ai prietena/prieten mai dezvoltat nu ai gusturi 7.Ai grija ce telefon scoti din buzunar, altfel esti considerat sarac. 8.Daca ai o poza cu un decolteu mai larg esti considerata carpa societati. 9.Numarul de like-uri si follow pe instagram te fac popular. 10.Nu esti adolescent daca nu te droghezi sau daca nu bei alcool.

badger life page 1/∞

[maxatron]

“...the choice books of the Library of St. Victor.” (Rabelais)

The for Godsake of Salvation. The Codpiece of the Law. The Slipshoe of the Decretals. The Pomegranate of Vice. The Clew-bottom of Theology. The Duster or Foxtail-flap of Preachers, composed by Turlupin. The Churning Ballock of the Valiant. The Henbane of the Bishops. Marmotretus de baboonis et apis, cum Commento Dorbellis. Decretum Universitatis Parisiensis super gorgiasitate muliercularum ad placitum. The Apparition of Sancte Geltrude to a Nun of Poissy, being in travail at the bringing forth of a child. Ars honeste fartandi in societate, per Marcum Corvinum (Ortuinum). The Mustard-pot of Penance. The Gamashes, alias the Boots of Patience. Formicarium artium. De brodiorum usu, et honestate quartandi, per Sylvestrem Prioratem Jacobinum. The Cosened or Gulled in Court. The Frail of the Scriveners. The Marriage-packet. The Cruizy or Crucible of Contemplation. The Flimflams of the Law. The Prickle of Wine. The Spur of Cheese. Ruboffatorium (Decrotatorium) scholarium. Tartaretus de modo cacandi. The Bravades of Rome. Bricot de Differentiis Browsarum. The Tailpiece-Cushion, or Close-breech of Discipline. The Cobbled Shoe of Humility. The Trivet of good Thoughts. The Kettle of Magnanimity. The Cavilling Entanglements of Confessors. The Snatchfare of the Curates. Reverendi patris fratris Lubini, provincialis Bavardiae, de gulpendis lardslicionibus libri tres. Pasquilli Doctoris Marmorei, de capreolis cum artichoketa comedendis, tempore Papali ab Ecclesia interdicto. The Invention of the Holy Cross, personated by six wily Priests. The Spectacles of Pilgrims bound for Rome. Majoris de modo faciendi puddinos. The Bagpipe of the Prelates. Beda de optimitate triparum. The Complaint of the Barristers upon the Reformation of Comfits. The Furred Cat of the Solicitors and Attorneys. Of Peas and Bacon, cum Commento. The Small Vales or Drinking Money of the Indulgences. Praeclarissimi juris utriusque Doctoris Maistre Pilloti, &c., Scrap-farthingi de botchandis glossae Accursianae Triflis repetitio enucidi-luculidissima. Stratagemata Francharchiaeri de Baniolet. Carlbumpkinus de Re Militari cum Figuris Tevoti. De usu et utilitate flayandi equos et equas, authore Magistro nostro de Quebecu. The Sauciness of Country-Stewards. M.N. Rostocostojambedanesse de mustarda post prandium servienda, libri quatuordecim, apostillati per M. Vaurillonis. The Covillage or Wench-tribute of Promoters. (Jabolenus de Cosmographia Purgatorii.) Quaestio subtilissima, utrum Chimaera in vacuo bonbinans possit comedere secundas intentiones; et fuit debatuta per decem hebdomadas in Consilio Constantiensi. The Bridle-champer of the Advocates. Smutchudlamenta Scoti. The Rasping and Hard-scraping of the Cardinals. De calcaribus removendis, Decades undecim, per M. Albericum de Rosata. Ejusdem de castramentandis criminibus libri tres. The Entrance of Anthony de Leve into the Territories of Brazil. (Marforii, bacalarii cubantis Romae) de peelandis aut unskinnandis blurrandisque Cardinalium mulis. The said Author’s Apology against those who allege that the Pope’s mule doth eat but at set times. Prognosticatio quae incipit, Silvii Triquebille, balata per M.N., the deep-dreaming gull Sion. Boudarini Episcopi de emulgentiarum profectibus Aeneades novem, cum privilegio Papali ad triennium et postea non. The Shitabranna of the Maids. The Bald Arse or Peeled Breech of the Widows. The Cowl or Capouch of the Monks. The Mumbling Devotion of the Celestine Friars. The Passage-toll of Beggarliness. The Teeth-chatter or Gum-didder of Lubberly Lusks. The Paring-shovel of the Theologues. The Drench-horn of the Masters of Arts. The Scullions of Olcam, the uninitiated Clerk. Magistri N. Lickdishetis, de garbellisiftationibus horarum canonicarum, libri quadriginta. Arsiversitatorium confratriarum, incerto authore. The Gulsgoatony or Rasher of Cormorants and Ravenous Feeders. The Rammishness of the Spaniards supergivuregondigaded by Friar Inigo. The Muttering of Pitiful Wretches. Dastardismus rerum Italicarum, authore Magistro Burnegad. R. Lullius de Batisfolagiis Principum. Calibistratorium caffardiae, authore M. Jacobo Hocstraten hereticometra. Codtickler de Magistro nostrandorum Magistro nostratorumque beuvetis, libri octo galantissimi. The Crackarades of Balists or stone-throwing Engines, Contrepate Clerks, Scriveners, Brief-writers, Rapporters, and Papal Bull-despatchers lately compiled by Regis. A perpetual Almanack for those that have the gout and the pox. Manera sweepandi fornacellos per Mag. Eccium. The Shable or Scimetar of Merchants. The Pleasures of the Monachal Life. The Hotchpot of Hypocrites. The History of the Hobgoblins. The Ragamuffinism of the pensionary maimed Soldiers. The Gulling Fibs and Counterfeit shows of Commissaries. The Litter of Treasurers. The Juglingatorium of Sophisters. Antipericatametanaparbeugedamphicribrationes Toordicantium. The Periwinkle of Ballad-makers. The Push-forward of the Alchemists. The Niddy-noddy of the Satchel-loaded Seekers, by Friar Bindfastatis. The Shackles of Religion. The Racket of Swag-waggers. The Leaning-stock of old Age. The Muzzle of Nobility. The Ape’s Paternoster. The Crickets and Hawk’s-bells of Devotion. The Pot of the Ember-weeks. The Mortar of the Politic Life. The Flap of the Hermits. The Riding-hood or Monterg of the Penitentiaries. The Trictrac of the Knocking Friars. Blockheadodus, de vita et honestate bragadochiorum. Lyrippii Sorbonici Moralisationes, per M. Lupoldum. The Carrier-horse-bells of Travellers. The Bibbings of the tippling Bishops. Dolloporediones Doctorum Coloniensium adversus Reuclin. The Cymbals of Ladies. The Dunger’s Martingale. Whirlingfriskorum Chasemarkerorum per Fratrem Crackwoodloguetis. The Clouted Patches of a Stout Heart. The Mummery of the Racket-keeping Robin-goodfellows. Gerson, de auferibilitate Papae ab Ecclesia. The Catalogue of the Nominated and Graduated Persons. Jo. Dytebrodii, terribilitate excommunicationis libellus acephalos. Ingeniositas invocandi diabolos et diabolas, per M. Guingolphum. The Hotchpotch or Gallimaufry of the perpetually begging Friars. The Morris-dance of the Heretics. The Whinings of Cajetan. Muddisnout Doctoris Cherubici, de origine Roughfootedarum, et Wryneckedorum ritibus, libri septem. Sixty-nine fat Breviaries. The Nightmare of the five Orders of Beggars. The Skinnery of the new Start-ups extracted out of the fallow-butt, incornifistibulated and plodded upon in the angelic sum. The Raver and idle Talker in cases of Conscience. The Fat Belly of the Presidents. The Baffling Flouter of the Abbots. Sutoris adversus eum qui vocaverat eum Slabsauceatorem, et quod Slabsauceatores non sunt damnati ab Ecclesia. Cacatorium medicorum. The Chimney-sweeper of Astrology. Campi clysteriorum per paragraph C. The Bumsquibcracker of Apothecaries. The Kissbreech of Chirurgery. Justinianus de Whiteleperotis tollendis. Antidotarium animae. Merlinus Coccaius, de patria diabolorum. The Practice of Iniquity, by Cleuraunes Sadden. The Mirror of Baseness, by Radnecu Waldenses. The Engrained Rogue, by Dwarsencas Eldenu. The Merciless Cormorant, by Hoxinidno the Jew.

https://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/r/rabelais/francois/r11g/contents.html

public domain is a very good thing

(please note - translation may vary)

[elloras]

I finished 5×07 and I have so much to talk about. First I want to rank all of Harv's lis: Scotie (obvs), Zoey (I loved the domestic feeling of those scenes with her niece. Men that raise someoneelse's child are hot), Rachel (more scenes, please), Esther (ha, ha, I couldn't believe she is Louis'sister),Katrina (she would be higher if they would actually interect),Paula (Klamille left a bad taste in my mouth about dating your therapist). And Donna: after 4×16 I hate Darvey. She isnt even an option

Second the Machel proposal was so Tobin: I loved your face, I would love you all my life. They gave me so many feels. Oh, and I love how we had an entire season comparing Scarvey to Jeff/Jessica and then, in 4×16 Darvey is compared to, wait for it: Louis and NORMA. I hadn’t minded Darvey, but now that I saw this I hate this pathetic ship. Put it to rest, writers, this is not your SHOWTP. All in all, I’m enjoying S5 a lot more than S4. I think we are entering the Harv-Structure. Finally

Zoey I think was still Mike-structure propping, but I enjoyed them just because of Gabriel and Jacinda lol. Rachel and Esther YES, Katrina – keep watching :P, Paula – is interesting, again, keep watching.

Machel: yes it was! I think it still felt a little less powerful because by that point Rachel has so completely been re-cast to Harvey structure but it was very sweet. 

The comparisons: LMFAO YES. And the more we get into Harvey structure, the more you’re going to hate it, trust me. I’m dying at the Louis and Norma comparison because I hadn’t noticed it before, but small spoiler – later on in s7 too there’s a comparison contrast: Donna, as we’ve seen, keeps comparing herself and Harvey to Mike and Rachel (with Rachel repeatedly saying WE’RE NOT YOU) and in s7 MIKE does it too, and Harvey responds by comparing himself and Donna to RACHEL AND LOGAN.

[heiresstochaos]

*Tali had been focusing on anything and everything else, but her headaches for the past few days. She didn't want to think about what was going on. All she wanted was to numb it enough that the voices would fade into a garbled murmur. It hadn't been easy and had taken a lot Patron to get to the point she was at when her cell rang for the umpteenth time* I swear she knows when I am off work. *grumbling to herself when she see the caller id say "Mother". Her mother had been calling her seemingly non-stop for the past few days. That was a record that bordered on stalking if you could pin that on family, but today her mother was calling repeatedly like her hair was on fire or the world was ending. Finally Tali has enough and answers her cell* What is it, mother?

"Talise Alazne Demara! Why haven't you returned my calls?!" *her mother was furious and worried. Two things that could spell trouble if Tali didn't diffuse the situation tactfully* Mama, you know things have been chaotic since I moved and I've been working a lot. *Tali was inwardly cringing as she hoped and prayed that her explanation would be enough. She never wanted to have her mother angry at her. That, no matter what, was just something she never wanted to face. Sofia was a tough task master and even harder to please, but she wasn't a woman anyone wanted to have her anger pointed in their direction* "I know you have but mi hija I have been worried. Your father and brother have been worried as well. There is so much we need to discuss and not a lot of time for me to explain." *Sofia's voice went from being furious to worried in the blink of an eye. This fact had Tali growing concerned* What is wrong, mother? *Sofia sighed slowly like she was thinking through what she needed to say then she had started talking about things from the past. Things that Tali couldn't get her mind to wrap around and grasp. That was until she mentioned Jaguars and that she had hexed her children.. the two she loved more than herself.. for a very good reason. Tali wanted to curl up into the fetal position and go into the beyond then and there, but her mother continued to rattle off an explanation as to why Tali was having such severe headaches that led to vomiting and moments of blacking out after feeling like her skin was being stretched too tight and the bones inside her were being shifted in ways that weren't natural by any means. Sofia ended the call with "We are coming to you so we can talk in person. All of us. Remember te amamos nuestra hermosa hija." Then she had hung up. Tali could feel the love of her family in the words that were spoken as well as in her mind. it washed over her so that she felt embraced by it* What do I do? *Tali looked up at the clock and saw that it was time to head to work. She couldn't or rather wouldn't let Janessa or JJ down. They had put faith in her and she had responded in kind to that. The staying busy meant she could put the conversation with her mother into the back of her mind and figure it all out when her family arrives at week's end* Fuck me. Can my life get any crazier?

*Tali hurried to get ready for work and drove the short distance to @JJsCigars. She parked her Audi R8 in the employee section and entered through the back entrance after setting the alarm on her car. Things seemed to be going smoothly for everyone as she made her way passed the bar where she spoke to John and Scoti who were busy serving the guests then she waved at Trixie and Bex who were taking orders out to the various tables and booths around the massive building. Tali finally made her way by the DJ booth and winked at RaeRae who was dancing to the beat she was spinning. All in all it was a normal night at JJ's up until three men walked in. The way they moved had her insides cringing as they checked out the place. To describe it actually they cased the joint. Their eyes darting here and there like they were looking for someone. Just their beady eyes and expressions had an image coming into Tali's mind of blood and death. The men made their way past her and as they did the small hairs on the back of her neck raised like hackles of a great beast warning her of danger. That was when she saw Kye out of the corner of her eye. Kye had spotted the men and had made a beeline towards the back entrance. She had moved so fast it was like a blur. One second she was just outside her office and the next the back door was clicking shut* What the.. *Tali softly spoke inside her mind as one of the men slammed into her right shoulder* Excuse you! *Tali's head began to pound as she spun towards the man in question and all three were glaring directly at her. It was like an old west standoff. The three of them on one side and Tali on the other. "Why does my head hurt?"

{Let the memory flow. Like water in a stream.}

There was that voice. This time it was her mother. There were more words but Tali didn't understand them as they were spoken in a language she had never heard before. Her chest felt like an elephant was sitting on it and her head... Hell she thought it might explode from the way it was pounding. Then flashes of images come into her field of vision.                 A man..                         A gun..                                Shots being fired...                                                     And screams...

"What the fuck?", Tali asked in her mind to get no answer as the images finally cease and she's left looking through her hazy vision. This had become the norm from the headaches, but the feeling of impending dread weighed on her. It only grew when the men headed out of the bar as a name finally came to her. {Lazaro Milian. He's trouble} Her father's voice firm but calm like that of a man who knows and has done far more than anyone knew. "That's what I sensed?", Tali was asking mentally seeking some kind of answer. {No you remembered his scent. That one was a member of his crew.} His crew?! Just what the hell was happening? Tali didn't know. The one thing she did know was that @JanessaKye was in trouble and she had to help. "Papa I have to help her." His answering warmth told her that he knew what Tali was going to try to do even if she wasn't sure of it herself. She glances around to see if anyone else noticed anything off before making her way to the back door. She grabs her head in agony once more as a feline predator stalks her way up the metaphysical path sharing her strength with Tali even if she wasn't ready. Tali knew this beast was her protector and she needed it's help to ensure @JanessaKye comes back in one piece*

[mbam2014]

MAIDEN FROM THE MIST by Tanya Anne Crosby

Maiden From the Mist by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Genre:Scottish Romance

Series: Guardians of the Stone, #4

Source: Personal buy

Publication date: July 27, 2017

Publisher: Oliver-Heber Books

Language: English

ASIN: B01NCYVEVS

Length: 206 pages

    (Amazon)

Product Description

Sorcha dún Scoti has known her whole life she is different. Now, the future of her clan is in doubt, and Una, their beloved…